


Every Third Sunday

by MahTohSka



Category: A Heist With Markiplier, A Heist With Markiplier (Web Series), markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Hurt, Other, Yancy sometimes quotes musicals, but he's gonna be okay, ya boy gets shanked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 19:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21397078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MahTohSka/pseuds/MahTohSka
Summary: Your visit with Yancy takes a turn ...
Relationships: Yancy | The Prisoner/Reader, Yancy/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 50





	Every Third Sunday

You let out a shaky breath as you walk through the front entrance of the same building you had help breaking out from. You were unsure how long it would be until you’d be true to your word and visit him; one month passed, and then another … and another. You felt bad once six months rolled around and found yourself staring at the pile of letters he’s sent you, keeping some correspondence with him after he helped you get out. Maybe it was time. 

You are escorted to a large room with six windows, a phone on both sides of the glass; there’s at least three currently in conversation while a fourth prisoner enters and takes a seat, a smile on their face as they pick up the receiver and talk to their visitor. You take a seat at the window on the end, lightly bouncing your leg in faint anxiety (was your heart beating fast as well?) as you patiently wait for the door on the other side of the room to open. Six months … how are you going to justify not coming to visit since the jail break? A simple ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t feel right for that occasion.

Your busy thoughts are interrupted by the buzzing of the door being opened and he’s there - black hair slicked back with a few strands pulled down in a curl, the hems of his uniform rolled up to his shins, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to show those strong biceps you’ve thought about squeezing. You miss seeing his tattoos, his handsome face - everything about Yancy you’ve missed the past six months. Yancy saunters over and pauses as he makes eye contact with you - and he smiles. His face softens in relief and joy, nearly sprinting to the window as he picks up the receiver, you quickly do the same; his breathing lightly ragged, you can see his jittery with overwhelming happiness. 

“It’s youse, you finally came,” he shakily lets out. “Look at youse …” Yancy takes a moment to look over you with those soulful brown eyes of his. “Haven’t aged a day. I miss those beautiful eyes of youses. They’re like … bright sapphires, or like shining emeralds, or, or like … a nice cup of coffee with just a hint of cream.” He pauses, letting out a warm sigh through his nose. “Yeah … still the handsome and or beautiful person I last saw. How ya been? I missed you so much.”

“I’ve been … busy,” you answer, unsure if you want to fabricate a lie as to why you haven’t been able to visit. It leaves a bitter taste on your tongue as you tell the truth. “I enjoy getting your letters, I just wish I could’ve visited sooner rather than now and I’m sorry for that.”

“No, no, don’t be sorry,” Yancy puts his hand on the glass, you raise yours at the same level. “Listen, whatever youse had going on out there, work, school, whatever, it’s fine.”

You take a deep breath as you press on. “There’s … more to the story than that,” you briefly open and close your eyes, unable to even look at him. “Yancy … I … I think I love you.”

He’s silent, you don’t know if the silence is a good or bad thing. Your nerves get a hold of you as you ramble, “I think it’s more of a ‘really like you a lot’ than ‘love’, maybe, I dunno, I only knew you for one day and never wrote back a whole lot which I feel like an idiot for not writing you back every time you wrote to me and I feel like an ass and -”

“Hey.” You turn your gaze from the table to him. Anticipation in your eyes as you sit there with bated breath if Yancy is going to say anything. What felt like staring into each other’s eyes for an eternity, he speaks, “It’s okay, cos youse know what?” He slowly stands, receiver still at his ear as he lifts up his shirt to reveal a new tattoo - your name over his heart. Taken aback (in a good way) at this new revelation, your eyes dart from him to the tattoo; you double blink to make sure you’re reading the word right … that’s … _your name_ … on Yancy’s chest. 

“Right back atchyouse,” he grins. “I got this done a week after I helped youse outta here. The others were saying it seemed a bit too soon, we just met each other, but I shoved Inky Clyde up against the wall and threatened him with my shiv if he didn’t put your name over the one place I wanna keep youse close by.”

A warm smile makes itself known on your lips. “I miss you, Yancy.” You swap stories for the duration of the visit, the guard tapping Yancy on the shoulder as the indicator that your time together was up. Before he hangs up the receiver he says, “With any luck, I might get to wrap my arms around that wonderful body of yours in a big hug.” He blows you a kiss and turns to exit when a prisoner from the next window jumps him, Yancy struggles in his hold as his arms are pinned back, but a second inmate leaps at him; his shirt is harshly grabbed as the inmate with a tattoo of metal gears on his left temple delivers a severe blow across Yancy’s face and to his gut. 

The guards do nothing about this scuffle, you rise to your feet and bang on the window and call for help but none comes. “Leave him alone!” you shout at the two inmates. The one with the tattoo stops to slowly crane his head in your direction - you remember seeing that face walk past your cell before Yancy helped you escape. A cruel grin smears across his lips as he pulls out a shiv, giving another blow to Yancy’s gut subsequently grabbing a fistful of his hair and running the blade along Yancy’s right cheek. 

“This is for slitting Pint-size Rudy’s throat, Yancy,” the tattooed inmate snarled. “Do that again to any of my boys and it’ll be your throat slit.”

“I-I was just getting into character for Sweeney Todd, Heapass,” Yancy grimaces as the blood trickles down his cheek. “Thought it would be an opportune moment to practice …” Another blow to his ribs, Yancy gives a rough coughing fit, specks of blood fly from his mouth. He shoots Heapass a smirk. “Guess the prop blade wasn’t dulled for the rehearsal. But youse know what? He had it comin’. He only had himself to blame.” Yancy glances over at you, a knowing grin on his lips. “If youse had been there, if youse had seen it. I betcha youse would have done the same.” He headbutted the inmate holding his arms. “Pop!” A kick to Heapass’s groin. “Six.” Yancy spun on his heels, slamming Heapass’s accomplice head into the wall, knocking them out. “Squish. Uh-uh. Cicero …” Heapass was recovering from the kick to his groin, snarling up at Yancy. “Lipschitz.” 

Not taking kindly to the musical reference, Heapass charged Yancy, the latter’s eyes widened as he felt something sharp pierce his abdomen. You scream his name, pounding on the glass as you watching Heapass shank Yancy; now the guards come to life, pulling Heapass away as he shouts at Yancy, “You know I hate ‘Chicago’, Yancy! I hate that musical! And I hate you and your singing! That was for Pint-size Rudy!” 

Yancy tries to charge at him, but his recent injury stops him from doing anything, he sinks to his knees as the nicer guard of the two, the one with the stubbly beard and Southern accent, goes to Yancy’s aid. “We need a medic!” He grabs his radio on his shoulder. “We need a medic at visitation, inmate got shanked.” He helps apply pressure on the wound as Yancy grimaces. “Don’t die on me, Yancy. You’re one of the few inmates I tolerate.”

“I’ll … I’ll be fine,” Yancy grumbles, now snarling, “Heapass is gonna get it soon.” He looks to Heapass who is fighting the guard’s hold as he dragged away. “You hear that, Heapass? I’ll kill you!” As the door closes, you wish you weren’t standing on the other side. You wanted to be at his side, instead you’re clinging to the window, hoping and praying that Yancy pulls through. He slowly turns his gaze over to you, a corner of his lips curl up. “Hey. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Wouldn’t be the first time.” He tries to chuckle but only his grimace resurfaces. 

“You best be going along,” the guard tells you. “We gotta rush him to the medical wing. You can come visit him there, we’ll let you know.”

“Yancy …,” you don’t want to leave. You stay frozen on the spot, watching a gurney come in, two medics lift his body onto it; a pair of hands gently pull you away from the window, the guard telling you Yancy will be fine and when the next visitation will be. 

Every third Sunday.

**Author's Note:**

> I had this rooting in my head after going through 'Heist'. I have a HC for Yancy that he's an avid musical theater fan, and the warden allows him to put on shows to boost morale.


End file.
